Maturity, and Trump

At times, in my past, I’d be fine with making fun of how people looked, or how awkward they were. To have a laugh at another’s expense, just because they’re out of earshot. I’m not proud of it. I can’t deny it. As a teenager I was on both ends of it. Through much of my 20’s I dished it. And to a degree, even in my 30’s, I occasionally descended to it.

Of course, at 47, I still see distinctions in how people look, and the insecurities we all sometimes betray. The difference now is that judging other humans based on superficial or awkward character traits, even within the privacy of my own skull, bores me. I’m ashamed my mind ever travels there.

I’m not alone. Most of us, most men, are dull and cruel (synonymous), at some point in their lives. The more self-aware among us, the more cultured among us, the smarter of us – let go of it sooner than I did. In fact, any man that could rightly be said to have ‘matured’, has by definition, already realized the shame inherent in measuring yourself, or your arguments, in such a superficial and banal way. So we mature, and it stops.

After reading those three paragraphs, you may be wondering why I’m trafficking in the obvious. I have bright friends. I spend time around great men. And I know all of you know this, from within, already. But here is my point – Trump, hasn’t figured this out yet. And he’s 70.

In fact, not only has he not figured this out yet, he is incapable of hiding the fact that he hasn’t figured this out yet. He lacks the tools.

Trump still believes that the sentence “look at her face“, or the clownish pantomiming of a disabled reporter – is funny. He doesn’t know better yet. He’s 70.